Currently Late

Summer seize heat. Winter sees cold. Spring changes our minds. Fall surrounds us, sublime. In the Summer, I twirl the stem of rose. She twirls like a ballerina with her tutu. In Winter, she’s brazen in virgin white. She’s statuesque, tall as an oak. In Spring, the music box spins and spins. Her melody is sweet, prim and proper. In Fall, the springs are shocked. “Memories,” plays on and on. I can jump to seasons as if changing channels. My senses react to the perfume or crisp air. Currently late Summer, though the boat is slow in Georgia, where the lights go out in October, and my head is high in the leaves spinning like a pinwheel, through hues of God’s choosing. He’s never late, though we feel delayed. Our seasons always show - on land, on sea, on me. and I remember the lamp, its shade of childhood, high on my dresser. I loved the ballerina - she moved me. Wondering if we shall glimpse such things that passed away. Still we’d give up every last glimpse to see our loved ones again. Seasons be.